The Land of Tears
by comewhatmay.x
Summary: A miscellany of the past, the present,and quite possibly the future. Latest: A doorman notices Ms. Waldorf's strange behavior.
1. Overture

**AN: A miscellany of the past, the present, quite possibly the future. No real spoilers, just a quote taken from the script of a future episode. Thank you to bethaboo, beta extraordinaire.

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_It is such a secret place, the land of tears. _

-Antoine de Saint Exupéry

_

* * *

_

"_Three words. Eight letters. Say it, and I'm yours."_

It's a simple truth, a qualification of any betrayals, and a means to an end.

They have worked so hard for those three words, eight letters.

They crafted a game around it, said it in hopes of making the other _stay_, and skirted around it till the words ran dry.

"_I don't love you anymore."_

She's not as weak willed as she was before—Blair Waldorf has learned to stand on her own, to thrive in Columbia's thorny social scene, and to rid herself of old jealousies and petty recriminations.

On the outside, she is as perfect as ever. Not a hair out of place, her Hamilton House key proudly displayed on a slender neck, and her visage a perfect illusion of happiness.

Inside, she is drowning, barely afloat, reaching for her island, the land of tears.

"_How could I still love you after what you did?"_

She can count on one hand the number of times Serena's seen her cry. Serena will pat her gently on her back and tuck a stray brown curl behind her ear.

And yet, the blonde hardly knows the real reasoning behind her tears.

Serena whispers words of consolation, yet they are empty and only serve to highlight the nuances of Blair's pain.

Because she's not crying over him, over this new Chuck Bass, she's not crying because she misses him, or because she wants him back.

But Serena never could see past what was in front of her, and Blair floats, alone in her land of tears.

"_When you were beautiful, delicate, and untouched."_

Not even the end of her toothbrush hitting the back of her throat can provide lasting relief.

If anything, the relief is short-lived and out-weighed by the enormity of the situation.

She doesn't cry, only stands and smoothes her skirt in front of the mirror, tucks a wayward curl behind her ear, and takes a deep breath.

Leaning forward, she deftly begins to apply concealer, tiny, precise strokes to cover up dark circles and red eyes.

"_It's time to let go of your fantasies."_

When it comes down to it, when she sheds the layers of artifice and rids herself of a delicately wrought masquerade, she'll never stop loving him.

But it is such a secret place, the land of tears.

"_Well, that's too bad."_

There will be no more tears shed over him, she decides one morning, sitting pale faced in front of an unsympathetic mirror.

There is a dark, foreboding silence within her room when she makes her resolve.

But then she tips her head forward, dark curls tumbling in front of her face, shielding a tear from view.

And she knows that these tears are merciless.

"_At least we won't be lonely in hell."_

The silly, childish, thing is she knows they are inevitable. It's been drilled into her brain and clutched between her shaking fingers, but it's hard to acknowledge the truth.

They are a match made in hell, and no one knows this better than Blair Waldorf herself.

"_We don't have to do those things. We can do the things we like."_

They don't do trivialities. There are no half-measures or simple gestures of inconsequence.

Manhattan is their playground, and they'll burn every seesaw and swing until they destroy each other.

Everything is heightened, every action enunciated, and simplicity forgotten.

Three words mean too much, another set of three words mean too little.

They never did anything halfway.

"_But the game's not over."_

They are both too stubborn to admit as much.

Betrayals, apologies, hatred, and love, all blending together within the tallies of their scoreboard.

No matter how many times they wave white flags or declare war, the game's never over.

"_Please don't leave with him."_

Action, reaction.

He pushes. She pulls.

He dares her to ascend those steps, dares her to smile seductively at him over a bare shoulder, dares her to lose all insecurities and _live._ If only for a night.

He tells her to do one thing. She does the opposite.

"_I chased you for long enough, now it's time you chase me."_

The chase is tiring. It is exhausting, it is draining.

The end is a promise that's always a little farther out of reach.

When it comes down to it, they both need to catch their breath. And perhaps the break is needed.

Perhaps it is necessary, that one must take a break and catch their breath, must slow down before the scenery passes us by so quickly we have forgotten our destination.

She always did leave him breathless.

"_Because I love her and I can't make her happy."_

Selflessness could never be used to describe either of them.

Bred in a world where selfish thoughts were taken by the spoonful, both had never really been truly selfless.

Yes, there were benefits and galas, enormous sums of money donated to nameless charities and nameless faces.

But in the Upper East Side, those benefits were more selfish than the new Nanette Lepore bought to impress the masses.

Maybe he can't make her happy, but he was never selfless enough to allow her to be with someone else, no matter what he claimed otherwise.

And benevolence had never been strong in Blair's rather sizeable vocabulary.

They're both too selfish to be meant for each other.

But when it comes down to it, they always defied expectations and paved their own way.

"_Chuck and Blair holding hands?"_

The cards sit comfortably in his hands, fanned out in perfect sequence, his eye appraising them carefully.

The same hands that handed her a loaded gun and an ultimatum, the same hands that clutched peonies so tightly on the roof of the Empire State Building that the stems nearly gave way to the pressure.

The same hands that graced her fingers in parting, hands now empty of her, while still unknowingly holding on to a piece of her heart.

Hands that are curled round another girl's fingers, hands that are now gripping onto other women, hands that left a trail of fire in their wake and burned away every bit of her that was good.

She used to love holding his hand.

"_On me you'd be so much more."_

Without her, he's just Chuck, a little boy lost in need of Daddy's approval.

He cannot begin to grasp exactly how _much_ she's changed him, because Chuck Bass doesn't do feelings, and to tread upon the far reaches of his mind seems an awfully big adventure.

Wading through the wreckage she has left him in, he can barely hold his head above water.

He is drowning, and Blair Waldorf is his lifeguard.

"_Your eyes are doing that thing where they don't match your mouth."_

Chuck's always been the only one to see past the gilded veneer and reach Blair Waldorf from the depths of her despair.

And she wonders, why he believes her so easily when the truth lay in the depths of her tear-filled eyes.

She is trying to convince herself, attempting to annihilate those fluttering creatures.

You can never really stop loving someone.

"_I'll just imagine she's you."_

Perhaps, perchance, mayhap, if only…

Was it possible, then, that she still loved him?

Despite his harsh, cruel words, perhaps the piece of her heart he had carved out and embedded himself in still remained.

Despite his pretences and pretends, perchance a few butterflies had remained, fluttering their wings weakly, but defiantly.

Despite his deluded misgivings and numerous betrayals, mayhap her heart pin had remained sewn to a favored sweater.

If only.

"_Then why does it feel like I lost?"_

Their game is a circle, cyclical, a bouquet of perennials.

She hurts him; and he hurts her.

They both lose; and they both win.

She retaliates with newfound vigor, being the only one privy to the real Chuck Bass.

He takes a loss; she scrambles onto a teetering win.

He knocks her off her pedestal, only to help her up another.

He loves her; and she loves him too.

"_I'm sorry, I screwed up."_

They don't do apologies. Not usually.

They do grand romantic gestures and pretty, glistening baubles.

Writhing bodies slick with sweat, long red scars down his back.

Tangled curls and bruised lips; kisses placed down the column of her neck and over her collarbone.

Apologies manifest themselves in quiet, breathy, moans, fingers tugging at navy ties of silk robes, and fitful sighs.

"_Because I know you better than I know myself."_

She knows every piece of his twisted, shadowy soul. She knows every inch of his past and every millimeter of his emotions.

She's tread on every corner of his, apparently non-existent, heart; embedded herself into his skin and infiltrated his senses.

All unintentional, of course.

"_I love you so much it consumes me."_

She hates him so much it consumes her.

So many different forms of hate, so many struggles against disgust and revulsion.

She hates the way his talented fingers leave her breathless and incoherent; hates the way he can draw emotion from a single glance; hates the way he looks at her as if he can see through the polish.

Mostly, she hates the way he makes her feel.

He hates her too.

He hates the way she is always in the back of his mind; hates the way his eyes are drawn to her, not unlike a moth to a flame; hates the way she looks so delicate, yet is unreasonably strong.

Mostly, he hates the way she makes him love her.

"_It wouldn't be my world without you in it."_

She couldn't bear it, if he were removed from her life permanently.

Neither could he.

Their world would turn on its head, emptying out contents of injuries and love. Diamond necklaces would fall from pockets, and minuscule heart pins would shatter upon contact.

Solace would be found in porcelain bowls and empty, rattling, bottles.

Medically speaking, livers would be destroyed and electrolyte balances thrown out of order.

Emotionally speaking, there would be emptiness. Empty thoughts, empty smiles, empty hearts.

Their worlds would never be the same.

"_Destroying me won't make you happy."_

They were happy, once upon a time.

But there's a reason why fairytales never have sequels.

The continuation of a Happily Ever After isn't very joyful.

There's a reason why fairytales end mid-story, before the King has a chance to hurt the Queen, to yank her throne from underneath her.

Their happiness is skewed, it is tilted, and it is nearing an apocalypse.

Yet neither had known true happiness before an impromptu striptease and the backseat of a limo.

She knew Manolos and Lanvin; Tiffany's and Cartier. He knew weed and sometimes cocaine; aged scotch and willing bodies.

Neither had known true unhappiness before each other.

Once upon a time.

"_Tomorrow's another day."_

Tomorrow is a promise that's easily kept.

It is more betrayals and a little more hurt. It is more sacrifice and a little less narcissism.

Tomorrow is white flags and proclamations; it is two sets of three words, eight letters, meaning the same thing in the dictionary of Chuck and Blair; it is the backseat of limos, silk scarves, and bowed headbands.

Tomorrow is more tears; a land of secrecy only one can truly breach.

Tomorrow is a promise that they will be together again.

_Goodnight Chuck._

_Goodnight Blair.

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_fin__  
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	2. Girlfriend

**AN: I've decided to expand on this, to create a little collection of my drabbles and vignettes mostly centered around my favorite GG quotes. Thanks to bethaboo, as always.

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**

"We've talked about this. You are not my girlfriend."

_-Oh Brother, Where Bart Thou?

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_

She was never really his girlfriend.

Blair Waldorf started off as the girl whose pigtails Chuck Bass liked to pull. The girl whose indignant cries of fury and beribboned headbands captured his attention in a way his five-and-a-half year old mind could not comprehend.

They went from casual acquaintances to enemies within the blink of an eye. She abhorred his philandering ways and turned her nose up at the girls that clung to him, turning towards her picture-perfect boyfriend, Nate Archibald. He disliked her prudish, stuck-up attitudes, her ability to coerce Nate into joining her for _Breakfast at Tiffany's_, thereby depriving Chuck of his best friend.

"She's not that bad," Nate would say, as the two young teens sat in Nate's closet, a rolled up, monogrammed towel stuffed between the cherry hardwood and closet door. A joint was passed from boy to boy, the blonde coughing slightly, the brunette smirking easily.

In turn, Chuck would raise an eyebrow as Nate continued to stare into space, glassy-eyed, though he knew it due to the pot and not the girl in question.

"Whatever, man. What did you tell Little Miss Perfect you were doing today in order to escape whatever society function she would've dragged you to?"

"I didn't—"

But at a mere thirteen years old, Chuck, even while high, had been able to read Nate Archibald like an open book. That much was clear on his face as Nate grappled for an explanation.

"Nathaniel," he would begin, "this is exactly what I warned you against."

Nate would shake his head and laugh, taking another hit as he attempted to throw a balled up shirt at a smirking Chuck.

…

"Thanks," he admitted begrudgingly, wedged between Blair and her trusty maid, Dorota.

"I didn't do it for you," Blair sniffed and turn her head, effectively dismissing him.

"Thanks anyways."

Unable to keep her eyes from tracing over his bruised cheekbone and bleeding lip, Blair blurted out the question that had been on the tip of her tongue since Nate had called her, pleading with her to bail Chuck out of jail.

Chuck shook his head, and Blair pressed on, the tips of her Chanel ballerina fingernails curling round his grey coat.

"Some bitch," Chuck finally relented, and Blair raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him, until he elaborated.

In the thirty-six minute car ride from the precinct to the Palace, a scheme had been concocted, a tentative friendship had been formed, a newfound respect evident in both Chuck and Blair as Dorota attempted to avert her eyes and not listen to the conversation.

"Thursday?" Blair asked with a smirk, as Chuck stepped out, the cold wintry air rushing into the heated interior.

"Looking forward to it," the boy answered with a smirk of his own, the sizzle of anticipation palpable as their eyes met for a brief, unwavering second.

From then on, Blair had a newfound respect for the resident playboy of the Upper East Side, and said playboy had found a scheming partner worthy of teaming up with.

…

Their progression from acquaintances, to enemies, to scheming partners, had not gone unnoticed by their blonde counterparts. Nate and Serena would inquire as to their newfound friendship; Chuck would smarm, Blair would haughtily disagree.

But the shared smirk over the connecting courtyards said otherwise.

Their progression from _friends_, if you could call it that, to lovers, had, however, gone completely unnoticed by both Nate and Serena.

All the better, for their relationship had imploded soon after, pushed to the edge by Chuck's manipulations and Blair's deceptions.

Blair Waldorf had never really been Chuck Bass' girlfriend. He would've attempted to liken her to another notch on his bedpost, but he knew that she was so much more.

She had been his greatest supporter; his toughest critic; but above it all, she had stood by him, even when it had caused her personal grief.

He would introduce her as his girlfriend, but what they had transcended the simple term, and was as indefinable as them.

Their relationship had no certain grounds, no assured endings, no clear beginning. They had no use for conventions, having broken every unspoken rule and law of relationships and defied anything or _anyone,_ for that matter, that had stood in their way.

Chuck didn't know how to define the bond that had bound them together since that fateful night in the back of his limo. One that withstood countless 'wars' and betrayals, one others had taken note of, and one that remained despite their misplaced desires to sever it.

Chuck Bass didn't know what they were.

He only knew one thing for certain.

Blair Waldorf was going to be his wife someday.

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_fin_


	3. One Night

**AN: A response to the amazing episode on Monday. Thank you for your amazing support, as always. Am planning a multi-chap fic continuance of it, but am unsure about posting until I have Atonement and Recollection done. Thoughts?

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Everything was a blur.

When his hand found the back of her neck, and they stared at each other for an interminable amount of time that somehow seemed to pass within the blink of an eye, she lost all sense of self.

There was a heated, furious kiss, his palm cupping her cheek, her arms thrown carelessly around his shoulders.

There was the solid, glossy surface of the piano under her bare thighs, his hands lifting her up, and her gasp of unrequited surprise.

There were fumbling, eager hands, the rip of black silk, and the unmistakable sound of a dark blazer being tossed on the floor.

There were shudders as he attacked her mouth with his own, his hands running a heated course from the curve of her hip to the bend of her knee.

There was the sound of a zipper being pulled down, a wild gasp as tentative fingers ran over the apparent bulge.

There were searching fingers, ripped seams, hurried gasps, and quiet moans drowned out by louder screams.

There were fingernails raking down his back, the blood red silk scarce protection against the onslaught of her nails.

There was a groan of exertion, a gasp of pleasure, dark curls thrown back in ecstasy.

There were closed eyes and openmouthed kisses, hands clutching at shoulders, and her heels digging into his back.

There were the familiar, mewling noises as she came apart in his arms, both fighting for dominance, both fighting for release.

There was a quiet, wistful sigh he almost believed he imagined as she fell slightly forward, slender arms wrapped around his neck, her hot breaths in his ear.

There was a gasp of realization as her world came crashing back down on her, and he felt her petite shoulders tense as he pulled her closer.

And then there were tiny, manicured hands pushing at his chest, pushing him away, the cold air rushing in to fill the space.

"This never happened." She attempted to control the shakiness in her voice, but it was for naught as she attempted to hop off the piano gracefully, stumbling instead.

"Like hell it didn't," he growled, because his pants were still pooled around his ankles, her dress still hiked up around her waist.

His blazer still tossed carelessly to the side, hopelessly wrinkled and her panties by its side, ripped beyond repair.

"I hate you," she spat, still glaring at him.

It was those words that had been the catalyst for what had transpired moments before.

"I think you made that clear," he responded with a dry laugh, and he wondered if the faint blush that bloomed on her cheeks was only his imagination.

"It was a mistake," Blair said sweetly, though the contempt in her eyes was clear as she whipped around, making her way towards the sweeping staircase.

"Leaving so soon?" he called after her, grudgingly pulling up his pants.

"No," she tossed over her satin clad shoulder, "you're leaving."

"Not after what just happened," he volleyed back, ignoring his blazer as he walked in the same direction she had, "If I recall correctly, you were always up for a second—"

"We hate each other," she reminded him, glaring at him from her perch at the top of the staircase, while he continued walking up slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

"All the more reason," he told her with a smirk, his steps slowing as he reached his destination, his hand nearing hers on the banister.

"Just tonight," Blair said firmly, her voice brooking no argument.

"Just one night," he affirmed, his voice dropping to a sensual whisper as he reached the landing, his face inches from hers, his hand covering hers.

She grabbed him first this time, her lips attacking his with fervor as he was backed up against a shallow ledge.

And when he spun her around, relishing the groan that was a result of the ledge pressing into the small of her back, he smirked.

If she hadn't been so preoccupied with his hastily fastened belt buckle, she would have noticed the smirk.

The smirk that foretold that _one night_ never meant just that.

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_fin_


	4. Hands

**AN: A bit out of order, considering this one takes place after 4.06 and the previous drabble took place 4.07. But no matter, here is the next vignette in my series: Hands. Thanks to bethaboo for the beta.

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**

"Chuck and Blair holding hands?"

_-Pret-a-Poor-J

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_

The cards sit comfortably in his hands, fanned out in perfect sequence, his eye appraising them carefully.

The same hands that handed her a loaded gun and an ultimatum, the same hands that clutched peonies so tightly on the roof of the Empire State Building that the stems nearly gave way to the pressure.

The same hands that graced her fingers in parting, hands now empty of her, while still unknowingly holding on to a piece of her heart.

Hands that are curled round another girl's fingers, hands that are now gripping onto other women, hands that left a trail of fire in their wake and burned away every bit of her that was good.

She used to love holding his hand.

-_An excerpt from 'Overture'

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_

There was a time, when love really did make everything simple.

When love was the quantifying, qualifying, universal answer.

_Why are you still with Chuck?_

Because I love him.

_Why do you put yourself through this?_

Because I love him.

She knew no other answer.

…

There was a time, when he used to hold her hand.

A mere walk in the park, his fingers playing with hers, his thumb drawing circles around her palm.

He would take her hand and twine his fingers with hers; she would smile inside because the simple, unconscious gesture meant entire volumes in their world.

And he would hold her hand, and she would smile on the inside.

…

There was a time, when she did not know what true happiness was.

Happiness seemed so insignificant a word when compared to the pleasure to be had in the back of a limo.

Old pleasures seemed tawdry in comparison, and Blair found herself faking smiles and quelling desires.

…

The last time she had touched him, the night had been full of promise. Forgiveness was nothing compared to the relief that washed over her, the encompassing liberation that he was still hers.

As he always would be.

But when he had stared at her, with that broken, desperate, expression, she knew she was done.

…

It started in a limo, and it ended at a wedding.

But with a simple handshake, one meant to solidify their truce, the first domino was tipped, inciting what Blair knew was to result in their inevitable reunion in the back of a limo.

It always started with a limo.

This time, it started with a handshake.

…

She stood, back to the door, a mere piece of wood that separated them, and she felt the heat sear her fingertips.

As if his one, simple, frightening, handshake had the power to set her every nerve aflame.

She felt the heat of his palm against hers for days.

And she knew it was only a matter of time.

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_fin_


	5. Rulebook

**AN: A different take on "enemies with benefits". Written before seeing 4.08. Thanks to bethaboo for beta-ing!

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**

Rulebook

There are rules.

They establish their statutes and laws within their very minds, know each law inside out and can recite them with perfect clarity.

Many of those said rules originate from their last foray into the unstable grounds of friends-with-benefits.

Only now, they follow them to the tee.

Or at the very least, they attempt to.

(Chuck Bass was never inclined to rules)

…

The thing is, they never were good with rules.

They themselves were never supposed to happen; they just did.

They defied every precedent set out by generations before them; a Waldorf was never to be with a Bass. The nouveau riche were simply eschewed from the upper echelons of society, meant to stand on the fringes and look in.

Blair Waldorf, the straight-laced, straight-A, uptight girl who personified the very meaning of an Upper East Side Princess, broke with tradition.

And if you looked closely enough, the warning signs were there; the way his name was first on her speed dial, the stolen moments soon edited out from the so-called perfection of her relationship with his best friend, and the way they could understand each other with a glance.

Chuck Bass filled the role set out for him, gave the stiff society matrons something to gossip about behind cold china and frigid smiles, and set out to squander his father's fortune on drugs, sex, and alcohol.

They weren't supposed to happen. They simply just did.

…

_Rule number one: No one stays over._

It is difficult, to leave her. Back when they had the luxury of trust and the security of hope, they were inclined to spending hours—days—in each other's arms. It had become almost comfortable, the way they would fall together, sweat sticky on their skin, the scent of their union heavy in the air, and breathless smiles.

She would snuggle backwards, and no matter the sweltering Manhattan heat (the Empire was well-conditioned anyways), he would throw his arm across her waist and draw her nearer.

It has become so instinctual that when he collapses beside her, breath lodged in his throat as she sighs ever so quietly, he very nearly clutches at her waist and draws her to him.

The warning look stops him in his tracks, and he leaves soon after, with one last longing glance at her bedroom door.

He very nearly winces as he slides into his limo, ignoring the pointed looks from her doorman and Arthur's poorly concealed surprise.

He _does_ wince when he steps into the shower, the hot water scalding, and the scratches on his back stinging in protest.

He relishes it.

…

_Rule number two: No one finds out_.

"You're oddly…happy," Serena comments, looking at Blair sideways over parfaits and croissants.

"Christmas is approaching," Blair replies breezily, scooping another too-large spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. Serena raises her eyebrow in surprise, but refrains from commenting on her friend's voracious appetite. (Too much is always better than too little).

…

"What's gotten into you?" Nate laughs as he walked into the suite, rubbing his eyes as if the illusion would pass, "You've been…not wallowing. Or planning Blair's destruction."

"We've moved past it," Chuck says shortly, before walking away, "People _can_ change, you know."

…

"Where were you last night?" Serena sits, on the edge of her bed, arms crossed, frown on her face, and Blair wonders whatever possessed her to ask the blonde to be her roommate.

"Out," Blair replies shortly, attempting to burrow herself farther into the warm covers.

"You came home at three in the morning," the blonde points out, oblivious to the brunette's attempts to avoid the conversation.

"I was out late," a sleepy Blair counters, as Serena shakes her head.

"Where have you been these past few days? I hardly ever—"

"I'm tired, S," Blair cuts in with a yawn, "can we do this interrogation another time? I didn't give you the third degree when you were sleeping with your—"

"Alright, alright," Serena backs off with a wary glance at the half-asleep brunette and a blush upon her features.

…

_Rule number three: Don't say it._

"I love you."

The words fall from his lips easier than they ever have before, and its while he's sitting upright in his bed and watching her collect her clothes through half-lidded eyes.

He watches her pause, then continue to button her silk blouse, her fingers fumbling with the delicate pearl buttons.

He smiles.

"Rules, Bass," she spits out, refusing to look at him as she steps into her heels.

"I love you," he repeats, and if he was unsure as to where the words came from the first time, he is sure now.

"No."

Her words are gritted out through clenched teeth and a heart ensconced in iron walls.

"Three words, eight letters," he reminds her, sliding out of bed and reaching for the first pair of pants he can find. "Say it, and I'm yours."

"That was different."

"How?"

She doesn't have an answer.

And now he's behind her, not touching her physically, though her treacherous body wishes otherwise, her every nerve is tingling—with excitement, anxiety, or fear, she does not know.

"I love you," he whispers, his words curling around her ear.

She closes her eyes, she turns around against her own will, and her hands find themselves clasped around his neck.

"I love you too," she whispers back.

She had buttoned her blouse wrongly, he notices as the pearl buttons slide through his fingers with ease, but it no longer matters as the powder pink silk soon meets plush carpet, amongst a crumpled skirt and forgotten heels.

…

Later that night, as Blair sleeps soundly, and Chuck will wake up, roll over, and smile.

He will run a strand of her chocolate hair between his fingertips and kiss her shoulder almost tenderly, because it is night and not even she is witness to his romantic tendencies.

And he will smirk, because they have always broken the rules.

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_fin_


	6. Sapphire

**AN: A bit of a change in pace, a little angst. Promises of fluff to follow. Thank you to bethaboo, as always.

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**

Something isn't right.

She sits diagonally across from him, a Prince on her right, beaming best friend on her left.

There are diamonds and sapphires round her neck presumably a gift from the _Prince_, who had shown up in New York a mere two weeks earlier to win back Blair's heart.

Apparently, he had some advantage over Chuck, because Blair had hardly let the man even begin to pursue her, whilst she had led Chuck on a cat-and-mouse chase for months.

Her hair is swept up in an elegant chignon, all the better to showcase her long, slender neck, and the sapphires that match the navy hue of her dress.

A dress which matches the royal blue and gold trim on the plates in front of them all, and Chuck has to snort quietly at the thought of Blair matching her dress to _tableware_.

Her plate, he notices with a frown, has barely been touched.

If you look closely enough, he realizes, you realize that Blair isn't actually eating. Merely moving the food around her plate, lifting the tiniest piece of braised lamb to her lips every so often.

Her champagne glass, however, has been refilled thrice already. That same champagne which had an apparent affect on her, evident as she tipped her head from side to side, grinning and laughing without a care.

Or perhaps it wasn't the champagne, Chuck realizes with a grim smile as he watches her glance at him from the corner of her eye, then proceed to place the tips of her fingers on the Prince's arm.

His fingers, in turn, grip his fork tightly.

Three courses, a few mischievous glances, a handful of glares, and three barely untouched plates later, Chuck is all but seething. The Prince says something to her, and her giggles carry over to his side of the table, but at this point, he's beyond her uncharacteristically flirtatious nature.

He's more concerned with the fact that she has consumed the dessert within two seconds of it being set down in front of her, and is already asking for another slice of pie.

Apple pie, he remembers has always been her favorite.

Chuck's barely touched his pie when he hears the unmistakable sound of a chair being scraped against hardwood floors, and pleasant excuses made by one brunette.

She leaves in a hurry, not noticing the dark eyes that followed her exit, dark eyes that watched the other members of the table with careful scrutiny once her navy-clad form had disappeared.

They hadn't noticed, he recognizes with a low growl, and his hand tightens around his fork once more, his other hand reaching instinctively for his own glass of champagne.

The Prince is conversing easily with Eleanor Waldorf, who is probably too enamored with the fact that her daughter is dating royalty to notice said daughter was probably making herself throw up at this moment. Serena is tossing her hair and grinning at a nameless nobody across from her, barely acknowledging her best friend's disappearance.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he murmurs under his breath, and the elderly Mrs. Wescott turns to him with a disapproving look on her heavily botox-ed face.

Chuck doesn't deign to give her more to gossip about, only scrapes his own chair against the hardwood floor, neglecting to excuse himself, and makes his way out of the room, on a path she had traversed minutes ago.

He's not too late, or so he hopes, as he reaches the door, the unmistakable sounds of running water sounding more like rushing floods in his ears.

The door is locked, but he is not surprised, as he bends down to peer at the doorknob carefully, hoping—yes. The doorknob had the tiniest of holes, meant for a skewer, or a toothpick, to be inserted, to allow the doorknob to be opened form the outside, in case of emergencies.

Fumbling in his pocket for something likened to a toothpick, Chuck knows that this constitutes as an emergency.

Which is why coming up empty-handed is not an option, and Chuck looks around furiously, spinning on his heel in search for something, anything.

A small side table, not ten steps away, catches his eye, along with the cut-crystal glass atop the polished wood.

Walking quickly towards the table, Chuck grabs a toothpick from the glass, and with haste, makes his way back to the door.

He has never been so grateful for a toothpick in his life, he thinks, jimmying the toothpick into the little hole and allowing the door to swing open.

She's crouched in front of the toilet, still pristine as her royal gown pools around her knees, retching into the toilet, her hands gripping the white ceramic.

He's by her side in a second, brushing away a fallen tear, tucking a curl that had fallen out of her flawless updo. She turns towards him, fear in her eyes.

"Blair," he whispers, a breath of hope, a murmur of comfort.

Her tears make tracks down her face, glistening against her pallor, as she looks up at the intruder. Wide, brown eyes meet his; wide, brown eyes that harden when she realizes it is him.

She stands, wipes the back of her hand against the ruby of her lips, and continues to glare at him.

"Blair—" he tries, but she dismisses him with a turn of her heel, flushing the toilet and washing her hands as he is left there, watching her.

She is halfway out the door when he finds the will to move his feet again, walking towards her and grabbing her elbow, stalling her movements.

"How long?" he asks.

"It never stopped," she shoots back, venom in her voice, desperation in her eyes.

"Was it—"

"Not everything's about you, Chuck," she spits out, turning away from him once more.

"I'm sorry," he calls after her, and she continues walking, her navy dress shimmering in the hallway light, her waist looking tinier as she walks away.

He returns to the table four minutes after her, lest he is the cause of any more gossip concerning her, and she refuses to meet his eyes.

The plates are gone, the champagne glasses refilled, and Blair downs hers in one gulp.

He watches her through darkened eyes, and she continues to avoid his gaze, choosing to smile up at the Prince beside her.

It's so fucking tragic all Chuck can think about is breaking glass, cracking glass, shattering it into a thousand pieces over the perfectly polished hardwood floors.

But not her. Never her.

She is already cracked.

He was just the straw that broke her back.

And he'll never forgive himself for that.

* * *

_fin_


	7. Nanny

**AN: Some of that fluff I promised. Enjoy, as there's some post 4x11 vignettes to come. Also, a new chapter of Two Loves I Have of Comfort and Despair has been submitted - it's preseries. I'm sure you'll love it. **

**Thanks go out to bethaboo for being an all-around amazing friend, beta, an fellow. Gossip Girl addict**.

* * *

When Blair Waldorf promised herself that she would never have a nanny, she'd been twelve, writing the promise into her leather bound diary. Tears occasionally fell onto the page, and the faint taste of vomit was present at the back of her throat.

When she made Chuck Bass promise that they wouldn't have a nanny, he had nodded his assent, having grown up with a deluge of au-pairs and nannies.

Neither of them expected that they would have twins—Eloise and Bradley Bass. At barely three months old, Eloise and Bradley had already developed a talent to bend their parents to their will, and demand attention at any given time.

"Blair," he said sleepily, throwing a pillow over his head, "your turn."

She was pretending to sleep, her breaths shallow and uneven as Chuck attempted to block out the cries.

He had told Blair once that keeping the baby monitor was a bad idea. She had thrown him a dirty look, asking how they were supposed to hear their babies if they cried.

At four in the morning, Chuck knew he had been right.

"Blair," he said, louder this time. "I got up two hours ago. It's your turn."

When this elicited no response from her, Chuck frowned, and knowing that this was one fight he wasn't going to win, got out of bed, grumbling about favors to be named later.

…

"We need a nanny, Blair."

She was ignoring him, once more, attempting to feed a fussy Bradley while Eloise wailed from her place in Chuck's arms.

"Blair."

She looked at him, the lack of sleep present in the circles under her eyes, the fact that Blair Waldorf was still dressed in pajamas (silk ones, however) at eleven in the morning.

"No."

And Eloise let out another wail, this one particularly ear-splitting, earning a plaintive look from Chuck, and Blair sighed.

"Plenty of people do this on their own," Blair argued, "why can't we?"

"Because I'm the CEO of a billion-dollar company, and you're the managing director of a PR agency. A managing director who, might I add, has been refusing to take time off."

"Things would fall apart without me," Blair shot back. "Those imbeciles can't do anything properly, you know that."

"We need a nanny," Chuck said firmly.

Blair glared at him fiercely, now attempting to calm a shrill Bradley.

"No."

…

"Definitely _not_."

Chuck walked into the living room of their penthouse apartment, having successfully put Eloise to sleep, he now returned for Bradley. Only to find that in his absence, Blair's second assistant, Meagan, had arrived, and was holding up pictures in front of Blair.

"What's going on?" Chuck asked curiously, settling beside Blair and taking Bradley from her arms.

Blair sighed tiredly, cuddling closer into his side. "I'm choosing a nanny."

Chuck refrained from grinning, only shifted slightly so he could kiss her quickly, but Blair turned her head at the last minute, and caught her cheek and a few wisps of hair.

"It's not for your benefit," Blair said shortly, and Chuck smirked. She was still stubborn.

Meagan cleared her throat, holding up another picture, this one of a blonde with a friendly smile, and model-like proportions.

"_No._" Blair nearly spat, "I thought I told you to screen them."

"I—I did," Meagan stumbled, "This girl, Karen, has great references, lots of training—"

"And she looks like a part-time escort," Blair finished, eyes flashing.

Chuck began to laugh, and off Blair's warning glare, quickly coughed to cover up his apparent mistake.

"Blair," he began cautiously, "shouldn't you be choosing a nanny based on their credentials and not their picture?"

"Not when I'm married to a husband who's as insatiable as a horny sixteen-year-old," Blair shot back fiercely.

Meagan, sensing this as her cue to leave, scrambled quickly from the room, not wanting to be caught in a spat between the two.

"I don't seem to recall _you_ having any complaints," Chuck said, his voice dropping an octave and causing Blair to tense as memories flooded her mind.

"I love _you_," Chuck reminded her, putting Bradley into his bassinet and making his way over to Blair. "I wouldn't be changing diapers at four in the morning if I didn't love you—and Bradley and Eloise—as much as I do."

Blair's glare had softened, and Chuck stole a glance at a sleeping Bradley, turning to Blair with a smirk.

"Where's Eloise?"

"At my mother's. Why?"

Finally registering the meaning of Chuck's smirk, Blair only shook her head adamantly.

"No. I've got work to finish before Bradley wakes up again and Eleanor returns Eloise."

"Blair," his tone had neared begging, and belatedly, he realized that this only proved her fears about hiring a nanny, "we need a nanny."

Her glare told him that a cold shower was in his imminent future.

…

"Chuck?" Blair's voice was irritated, as he knew it would be. She emerged from the kitchen, hair in disarray, eyes flashing dangerously at him. "Where have you been? You were supposed to take the kids—"

She caught sight of the person behind Chuck, and a smile quickly replaced her frown.

"Dorota!"

"Miss Blair," the maid said fondly, sharing a knowing glance with Chuck.

"What are you doing here? I thought Milla had her—"

Chuck stepped forward, proud smile alighting his features, "I brought her here. We need a nanny, Blair."

"Dorota?" Blair's smile grew wider, and a new emotion filled her eyes. "Why didn't I think of this before?"

"This is why you married me, darling," Chuck teased, and Blair ignored the barb, already beginning to educate Dorota on the twins.

"I only here three, maybe four times a week," Dorota told Blair. "I have Ana and Milla at home, and you good mother, Miss Blair. Wouldn't want children without mother."

Blair nodded her understanding, and Dorota was quick to take charge of the situation within seconds, allowing Blair to relax for a moment.

"What do you say we go out tonight?" Chuck suggested to an ecstatic Blair, who only nodded her assent.

"In fact," Chuck continued, as if the idea had just come to him, "why don't we have Dorota spend the night? I'm sure my old suite is open tonight."

Blair looked at him, arching an eyebrow playfully as she leaned closer.

"You know I prefer a limo."

* * *

_fin_


	8. Last Resort

**AN: I wrote quite a few vignettes after 4x11. Then promptly forgot about them. So this is me, trying to (frantically) catch up before the new episode airs. A D/B conversation, yes. But it is centered upon C/B. And this is what I think we were missing from the show. And, I mean, even Dan Humphrey would know that CB are end game.  
**

**Merci beaucoup, as always, to bethaboo.

* * *

**

"Sent," Blair pronounces, hitting the _Send_ button with a flourish and sitting back contentedly.

Dan, leaning over Blair's shoulder, frowns at the screen.

"What do we do now?"

"We wait, Humphrey," she replies with a roll of her eyes, setting the laptop aside and picking up the latest _Vogue_.

The next twenty minutes pass in silence—apart from Blair flipping through her _Vogue_ and picking apart outfits ("Denim wedges? Could they _be_ anymore plebian?")—until a sudden thought pops into Dan's mind.

"Why did you choose me?"

He glances up in time to see Blair's look of aversion, before she returns to flipping pages.

"You're going to have to explain, Humphrey. Not all of us are privy to the rambling that goes on in your head."

"I was just thinking," Dan continues, ignoring the barb, "why did you choose me to help you annihilate Juliet? You could have chosen—"

"Your sister decided it was better she stay in Hudson, and I knew your obsession with Serena would come in handy during the search."

Blair's words are clipped, but Dan ignores this warning sign and forges on recklessly.

"Nate would fit that criteria as well," Dan points out, only to be on the receiving end of a glare and sigh.

"Nate isn't nearly as obsessed with S as you are," Blair reminds him. "Besides, scheming with Nate would be like teaching a three-year old the difference between Princess and Asscher cuts."

"Then I was just a last resort? After all your other options were exhausted?"

Blair levels him with an even gaze, and smirks.

"A last resort," she repeats, then laughs. "Yes Humphrey, you were my last resort."

"Thanks," Dan retorts, but his words are softened by the tone of his voice.

Blair shrugs, "Only for Serena would I willingly spend time with _you_, Humphrey."

"What about Chuck?"

Dan's question is asked simply, a continuance of a previous train of thought. But to Blair, it is simply another blow tossed her way.

"What about him?" Blair sniffs, turning back to _Vogue_ once more. The page-turning becomes more furious, and the distinctive _rrrrrrrip_ of a page is heard.

"Why didn't you ask him?" Dan prods, and the questions have veered from innocent to a full-blown curiosity. "Everyone knows that a Chuck-and-Blair scheme is one to be feared. And you guys aren't exactly enemies anymore."

"No," Blair returns stiffly, "we're not enemies."

"Then?"

"We're friends," Blair says defensively, but the word sounds foreign in relation to her and Chuck.

"You two can't be friends," Dan says with a laugh, shutting up once Blair turns her icy glare on him.

A look of consternation passes over Blair's features, and her glare softens as she sighs once more.

"No," she agrees. "We can't be friends."

And without further prompting, she continues on, the words pouring forth as if she had been waiting all this time to say _something_, to _someone_, even if it was just him, Dan Humphrey from Brooklyn.

"It doesn't mean we _aren't_ friends," Blair amends, recalling the words she had written on monogrammed stationery. "But we need this…this…break. If we stayed together any longer, we would have fallen apart. I can't be Chuck Bass' girlfriend again—in NYU I was Blair Waldorf, and no one cared. In Columbia, I'm _Blair Waldorf_, and _everyone_ takes notice. I'm not ready to give that up yet."

"You can still be Blair Waldorf when you're with Chuck?" Dan means to state it, but it comes out sounding like a question.

"Not when Blair Waldorf isn't really sure who Blair Waldorf is," Blair says quietly, as if she is admitting this to herself rather than Dan. "I'm only twenty," she says almost plaintively, "and I know one day I'll be…Blair Bass. But maybe in the meantime I want to hold onto Blair Waldorf as long as I possibly can."

"You don't _have_ to change your name," Dan reminds her, but he knows in the tradition-steeped Upper East Side, such practice is unknown and foreign.

"I do," Blair tells him, rolling her eyes. "And I _want_ to. But just for now, I want to be Blair Waldorf and I want to go to classes at Columbia, then for drinks at Kenmare and facials at Bliss the next day. I want…simplicity. A break from the dramatics."

"You'll get bored eventually," Dan points out, and Blair shrugs with acknowledgement.

"Maybe. And that's when I'll learn that I should stop fighting us."

"Us?" Dan clarifies, though he knows the answer.

"Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck," Blair says, her tone part wistful, part wry.

Dan opens his mouth, as if to say something else, but no words come to mind before he is cut off by a beep.

Blair leans forward, and Dan confirms her suspicions.

"It's her."

Clicking on the e-mail, he is greeted by an address, and a concise instruction.

_Find the bitch._

As he looks up the address, fingers flying deftly over the keyboard, something told him he was missing something. Something important, something he had meant to say before he had been interrupted.

"He still loves you."

The statement comes from out of the blue, the cursor frozen over a link as he blurts out his strange thought.

Blair frowns, bites her lip, and looks to be pushing unwelcome thoughts from her mind.

"I know."

It's a whisper, barely evident before she turns off her vulnerability, glances onto the screen.

"Cornwall," she says firmly, and Dan knows the conversation is closed.

But for what it was worth, being Blair Waldorf's last resort was bearable when that meant being privy to the enigma that was Chuck and Blair.

* * *

_fin_


	9. What New York Used to Be

**AN: Thanks all for your lovely reviews, and to bethaboo, my fantastic beta! Title is from The Kills' song, "What New York Used to Be". It appears I had some unresolved angst when I wrote this (a month ago).  
**

**

* * *

**

When he returned, his head was hung low, his eyes downcast and red, his clothes wrinkled.

There existed barely a trace of Chuck Bass in the unshaven, tired man who emerged from the Bass jet and scarcely made it to the waiting limo.

Christmas had been spent with a bottle of single malt scotch and three glass tumblers, two of which had not survived the night.

He checked out of the hotel before explaining the broken glass from behind the bar.

It wasn't as if he didn't have enough money to pay for the repairs a thousand times over—hell, he could have remodeled the entire hotel with merely his trust fund—he just didn't want to explain himself.

Because Chuck Bass had come to realize that money didn't solve all his problems. The scarier realization had been that he should have recognized this earlier. Should have seen the signs, believed those sayings.

When he had approached Jack the first time, the other man had laughed, ripped up the cheque, and asked about Blair.

Chuck hadn't been able to stop himself from lunging across the cherry wood and throttling Jack—the authorities had not been pleased. Neither had Jack, who had received three stitches above his left eyebrow.

So needless to say, his second visit to Jack was unwelcome.

The third, fourth, and even fifth visits yielded the same result. Jack refused to help him, taunting that Lily was just making his job easier. Chuck had lost both Blair and Bass Industries. For good.

It took all of Chuck's willpower to not add a black eye to Jack's myriad of bruises.

…

The first thing he sees is five consecutive Gossip Girl blasts—all concerning Dan and Blair.

The words suck all the air from the room. The pictures are simply another kick to his already roiling stomach.

Dan and Blair. Dan and _Blair_.

Of all people.

He should have known. Should have read into the burgeoning relationship between the two when he had heard about their roadtrip.

Blair didn't go on roadtrips. But for Serena, she would do anything—even deign to be in Dan's presence for an extended amount of time.

But this. _This_ was different. Blair wasn't required to keep Dan's acquaintance. There were no schemes to conceive, no psychotic townies to destroy.

This was simply Blair _wanting_ to be friends with Dan.

At least, Chuck hoped it was simply being friends.

Because the other option wasn't possible—he _knew_ Blair wouldn't stoop so low so as to date _Humphrey_.

Even if it was in retaliation to anything he had done.

* * *

_fin_


	10. This Day's Spinning Circus on a Wheel

**AN: Title is adapted from A Fine Frenzy's "Ashes and Wine".**

**

* * *

**

The call comes on the thirty-first of December.

From the fireworks in the background, to the slur in his words, Blair can gather that he is still in New Zealand (or perhaps Australia now), and that it is New Year's Eve, wherever he is.

"How are the sex games in the rainforest?" she snaps, because the insult still stings, and the curt, _"Happy Holidays, Blair"_ still hurts. Just a bit. She's learned to dull the pain.

"Not as fun with girls who aren't you," Chuck shoots back, and Blair rolls her eyes.

"Have you been drinking?"

"I miss you."

"That wasn't an answer," Blair says, words catching in her throat because she can't—_won't_—be drawn in by words said in the heat of the moment.

"It's a New Year, Waldorf."

"Not in New York."

"It is here."

"It's eight in the morning, Chuck," Blair says, though she knows her argument is futile.

"You always wake up at six, and it's midnight here." Chuck reasons. "Besides, I wanted to apologize."

"For?" Blair frowns, because there is so much to apologize for, yet she can't bring herself to pin down one betrayal.

"I'm sorry I missed Christmas," Chuck admits, and Blair rolls her eyes.

"I'm sure you had better things to do," she replies frostily, and the iciness of her words is not lost on Chuck, even on the other side of the world.

"I should have stayed."

"No, Chuck," Blair says, "you shouldn't have."

"Why not?"

"I'm just learning to remember what it's like being without you again," she admits quietly. "I'm just learning to remember that I'll be fine without you."

"I'm sorry," he says again, and Blair knows that somewhere, wherever he is, there is an empty bottle of scotch and drowning hopes.

"It's easier without you here," Blair admits.

"I wish you were here." It is so quiet that Blair has to strain to hear it, and before she can respond, Chuck pipes up with another piece of information.

"Jack said no."

"Excuse me?" Blair bristles at the mention of the other Bass' name.

"He said no. He won't help me get Bass Industries back."

"So you did leave to go find Jack," Blair accuses, though she had known all along.

"I had to," Chuck reasons. "It's my father's company. My legacy and I can't let it be bought out. I shouldn't have—"

"It doesn't matter," Blair says, tired now. "I'm half past caring, Chuck."

"I need your help."

"No."

"Why?"

"I can't be someone who's always on the sidelines, ready to jump at any call of help. No, Chuck. I can't help you here."

"But—"

"Happy New Year, Chuck."

She presses the _End_ button, and breathes a sigh of relief.

…

Halfway across the world, the line goes dead and Chuck drops his head into his hands, weary.

He shouldn't have left with such a _succinct_ goodbye, he supposes.

Getting to his feet—with more trouble than necessary—he makes his way to the door of his suite.

Perhaps his New Year's Eve could be salvaged.

But the sound of the parties, the reveling, and the incessant pounding that reverberated through both the floor and his head, only sent him deeper into his own despair.

Looking around the room, at the scantily clad girls, half falling over after one too many martinis, he sighs.

None of them were Blair. Of course.

* * *

_fin_


	11. Blur

**AN: Written after 4x15, before 4x16/4x17 aired (but me being me, I got it out extremely late.) I thought it was extremely odd that Chuck didn't hear Dan and Blair behind the curtain; warning - this has a bit of D/B. Thanks go out to bethaboo, as always!

* * *

**

He's not quite sure what happens—all he sees is a blur of gold, a flash of heat on his fingertips before she rips her arm away, heels clicking sharply.

It's a last-ditch attempt to save whatever he has left—he's lost his company, his family, and now, Raina. He's not quite sure _what_ they have, exactly. But he does know this—it makes him feel whole again, like he's doing something right for once. He's not sure if what he feels for her is love; it is nothing like what he had felt with Blair, that is for sure.

It is different.

And different is what he needs, just as Blair needs success with her job.

He's confident enough they'll find each other one day.

But Raina is different. She is different than Blair in every way possible, including whatever effect she has on him. For the time, she is an escape. A way to find happiness, no matter how artificial or provisional.

With Raina, Chuck knows that once they are done, they are done—with Blair, they are never over.

The thought comforts him slightly as he sinks back against sumptuous silk, closing his eyes and wanting the night to be over. Without the buffer of his deafening thoughts, Chuck hears something—a rustle of silk, the slight creaking of a couch spring, the shuffle of shoes.

Walking over quickly to investigate, Chuck pauses, hands fisted in the material of the curtains. There is something foreboding, about his current predicament; something he can't quite describe except to say that the churning in his gut is completely different than what he had experienced with Raina moments ago.

But Chuck's always been one to ignore the warnings.

He throws the curtains open with a flourish.

He's not quite sure what hurts more—Raina's rejection, or the scene in front of him.

His eyes flicker to Blair's first, a natural instinct that seems to occur whenever they are in each other's proximity. She glances away and blinks quickly, once, twice, three times—and when she looks back up at him, her eyes are a blank, hard stare.

But Chuck knows Blair better than she knows herself. Knows that blinking away tears is Blair's favorite trick in the book—she's mastered it, clearly.

The next thing he sees is Humphrey. In an ill-fitting, nondescript suit that clearly establishes his standing of Brooklyn simpleton.

But it is not Dan's expression, which is as judgmental as one can expect from Dan Humphrey, that makes him see red.

It is Dan's fingers, curled intimately around Blair's dainty ones.

It takes all his willpower not to scream. But Blair doesn't move a muscle. Doesn't pull her hand away from Humphrey's unworthy ones.

Nothing changes, for a few seconds. They remain in their places, frozen in locked gazes, a silent challenge issued throughout the tiny space.

Blair breaks the silence first, removing her hand from Dan's and standing tall.

The look she gives Chuck is cold, but her gaze turns forward as she walks, or rather attempts to walk, past him.

Dan is still frozen in place, arm reached awkwardly to the side, fingers cold, eyes watching the scene unfold in front of him with irrefutable curiosity.

Chuck and Blair have always been an enigma.

And Chuck, almost predictably, reaches out, grabbing Blair's forearm.

"Blair," he whispers, and it is so quiet Dan wonders if he had imagined it.

Almost as quickly as his arm had reached out, Chuck draws it back, as if the simple touch had harmed him.

Blair draws her arm back as well, and it is another difference, Chuck thinks mirthfully. With Raina, she had left the barest imprint of heat on the pad of his fingertips.

With Blair, the electricity jolts through his veins and sets his skin aflame. Even when she is halfway to the door, steps slightly wobbly, the heat from her skin permeates his.

Dan stands next, though his exit is far less graceful.

"Bass."

"Humphrey."

It is a sneer, rather than the desolate whisper of Blair's name.

"She heard you," Dan supplies, still trapped in the small space as Chuck blocks his way.

"You're—"

But Dan doesn't bother, only brushes past Chuck and heads for the doors as well. There is no parting glance.

Chuck is the last to move from his place, and when he does, his movements are slow. Lethargic.

But he makes it in time to watch another scene unfold in front of him, this time, through the open door.

He strains, but he cannot hear.

It's better this way, he thinks. Because he's not quite sure the nauseated feeling can be kept at bay if he has to hear what is accompanying Dan's actions.

Dan reaches Blair, reaches out to her, fingers closing around the same arm Chuck's fingers had been wrapped around moments prior.

She doesn't shake him off.

The last sound he hears is not the clicking of Blair's heels as she and Dan walk away, Dan's hand on the small of her exposed back.

The last sound he hears is the breaking of the last piece of his heart.

* * *

_fin_


	12. The Bet

**AN: This is set after 4x09. Apologies for the delay, I meant to have it up much sooner! Thanks so much for the lovely reviews:)

* * *

**

They begin tentatively; akin to butterflies newly emerged from their cocoon. The dance is lethargic, each step taken gingerly, as if fear of tripping won above all else.

There are blunders, at first. They forget to call ahead, to use Serena, Eric, Nate as intermediaries, to ensure the other will not be at the Davis' dinner. They encounter each other when they least expect it, the surprise written across both their faces.

But with each surprise comes relief. When a dinner passes without a cross remark or assignations in coatrooms, there comes a small satisfaction. _We can do this_ is the silent parting remark; a lingering glance after each encounter is done with.

And with the completion of every dinner, at the close of every gala and ball, their encounters become less taxing, less cumbersome.

They settle into a cautious pattern, circling round each other with careful precision. They become _friends_, though they claimed it was not possible before. They can laugh with each other, share quiet smiles from across the room. Nate and Serena breathe sighs of relief each time polite _'Hello Blair'_s and _'Hello Chuck'_s are exchanged with the propriety of the UES and the familiarity of knowing each other from years past.

But their past, their lengthy, arduous past, is not erased.

There is still the flare of jealousy, a spark of anger across Chuck's features when another man dares speak to Blair.

An undercurrent of _something_ still exists within their careful greeting, something deep and habitual, ingrained within their very soul.

And sometimes, she will pass a champagne glass to him, and there is a moment, when there is but a breath of air between their fingers, when her eyes snap to his dark, unreadable ones, and all rational thought disappears.

Then Blair will lower her eyes, and Chuck will avert his, knuckles gripping the stem of the glass.

She will hurry away from him, towards Serena, towards her mother, towards anyone but him.

He will remain, eyes dark as pitch, black unfathomable depths, and knuckles white against delicate glass stems.

…

"Two months."

"Excuse me?" Serena turns towards her brother, who had come from seemingly nowhere and joined Serena behind the white stone column.

Eric nods towards the pair, Blair's pale pink dress perfectly complementing Chuck's pink-and-orange paisley bowtie, who are studiously avoiding each other.

"I give them six weeks, max."

Serena laughs quietly, lest she draw the attention of those nearest to them.

"Five weeks."

"Not fair," Eric counters, "Blair's your best friend."

"And you're the closest thing Chuck's got to a brother," Serena reminds him.

"A month," Eric amends, and Serena appraises him carefully, as though they were ten and twelve once more, betting on who would be the first to get drunk—Lily, or Klaus.

"The terms?" Serena prompts, eyes shining as she turns fully towards her younger brother.

Eric smirks, an expression so eerily reminiscent of Chuck's that Serena frowns slightly.

"I accept video games, cash, or purebred English bulldogs," Eric tells her casually. Serena rolls her eyes.

"Manolos, size eight-and-a-half."

Eric grins in return, stretches out his hand.

"And we're not allowed to meddle in their relationship," Serena tells him sternly. "We have to let them happen on their own, forcing them together would defeat—"

"I know, I know," Eric says impatiently, "so we have a deal?"

"We have a deal," Serena confirms, shaking his proffered hand.

Blair is making their way towards them, suspicion written across her features.

"S, what's going on?"

The two van der Woodsens turn to her, perfect smiles in place.

"Nothing, B."

…

"Tomorrow, then?"

A question, asked as he traces invisible patterns on her bare skin.

"Tomorrow will be exactly four-and-a-half weeks from the day they made the bet."

A laugh, and she props herself up on her forearms, eyes sparkling.

"They should've known better than to try and bet on _us_."

A triumphant smirk, and he leans closer, until his lips were inches from hers.

"Tomorrow."

…

Gossip Girl will inundate everyone's phone with texts, pictures, and even a video, of Chuck and Blair in the Empire's lobby, a picture perfect scene straight from a movie.

Serena will groan when she sees the text, and then avert her eyes because _ew_, he was her stepbrother and she did _not_ need to see them practically having sex in the Empire's lobby, _thankyouverymuch._

Eric will stifle a laugh and shake his head knowingly, telling Serena they should've known better.

A week later, two pairs of Manolos, size eight-and-a-half, and a purebred English bulldog named Charles are delivered to their respective owners.

* * *

_fin_


	13. Sandcastles

**AN: Thank you all for your fantabulous reviews and love, and thanks to my incredible beta, bethaboo.  
**

* * *

sand·cas·tle _n._

1. A castlelike structure built of wet sand, as by children at a beach.

2. **Something that lacks substance or significance.**

* * *

_C.B._ and _B.W._ are embossed on the place cards, the _B_s intertwined in flowery, ornate script, and small, pressed vivid yellow lilies are affixed delicately to the card, matching the summer theme perfectly.

He always thought she'd have an autumn wedding.

_Before_, when he had still had the right to call her his girlfriend, she had always dreamt about autumn weddings.

_It's the color scheme_, she would tell him, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder as he breathed in the deep, clean scent of her shampoo. _The reds, siennas, apricots, golds…_

This wedding was bright and playful, not befitting Blair Waldorf in the least. This wedding was to take place on a sandy white beach, billowing white tents in the background.

Colorful lilies stood in plain white vases, scattered round the room in disarray. He had never expected Blair to hold her wedding in _St. Barts_, of all places. Or rather, the private island her fiancé (and husband, in a few hours) had bought. St. Barts was merely a stone's throw away from the private island; accessible by the eighty-foot yacht he had recently descended.

He turned to Serena, who was glowing, her skin tan against the yellow of her bridesmaid's dress, an equally bright orange sash above her round stomach.

"Serena!" he called out, and she turned to him, the bright, sunny smile dropping for a moment.

"I didn't think you'd come," she admitted, eyes flitting around nervously, as if looking for—

"I'm not here to pick a fight with the groom," he rolled his eyes. "Actually, I'm surprised Blair invited me."

"Dan's over there," Serena nodded to her husband, standing a ways away with their daughter, Leila Humphrey, who also happened to be one of the four flower girls.

He wouldn't put it past Blair to make this day perfectly grand—even if it wasn't the perfect she had envisioned with him.

"Where's Blair?" he asked instead, eyes roving the billowing white tents, for any sign of—

"In her room, of course," Serena remarked lightly, though her eyes held a warning.

"I'll see you later," he nodded cordially, then set off in the direction of the house, only to be stopped by Serena's iron grip.

"Don't," she warned, "I can't believe she invited you, and I can hardly believe you are attending. But don't make this difficult for her—"

"I'm merely wishing her well," he said defiantly, wrenching his wrist away. From the corner of his eye, he can see Dan watching them worriedly, as if he also sought to protect Blair, "I've known her since we were seven. Is this not what old friends do?"

"You two are never just old friends," Serena said, but her words were resigned. "Fourth bedroom from the left."

"Thank you," he said with a smile, turning towards the sprawling island home.

…

"Waldorf."

She hasn't lost the ability to remain completely unruffled, as she turns to him, smile on full display.

"I didn't think you'd come."

"I didn't think you'd invite me," he volleyed back. She sighed, fingering the edge of her champagne slip, one eerily similar to the one he had peeled off in a limo, so many years ago.

"I'm going to be married in a few hours," she told him.

"I know."

They stared at each other, for an infinite amount of time, her eyes pleading with him, as if begging him to understand—

"Why did you invite me?" His words break the silence; yet only serve to increase the tension.

"I didn't think you'd come," she lifted her chin imperiously, defending herself. "It was merely a formality, of course."

"A formality?" he laughed, the deep, wry laugh that she had not heard in so long.

Blair nodded, "You and I have known each other for a long time. I'm not going to let whatever failed relationship between us get in the way of my marriage."

"You know you would've said yes," he stated simply, as if out of the blue. "If I had asked, you would have said yes."

"Yes, well, you never did ask, did you?" Bair shoots back, eyes flashing. As soon as the words left, she clamped her mouth shut, as if afraid to continue.

Shaking her head slowly, wisps of hair escaping her elegant updo, her expression hardened, became one of cordial amicability. "It's in the past. _We're_ in the past. I can't do this right now. I'm going to be married in a few hours. And there's nothing you can do about that."

"Blair—"

"No. I won't allow this to happen again," she backed away from him then, putting as much space as possible between them.

"You can't possibly love him—"

"I'm _marrying_ him. I do love him."

"—as much as you loved me." He finishes resolutely, ignoring her interruption.

"_Loved_. I don't love you anymore."

When the words leave her lips, her pale, quivering lips, free of gloss and rouge, they hang in the air between them, a testament to the betrayal, to the hurt.

"Like hell you don't," he growled, and in an instant his lips were bearing down on hers fiercely, as if attempting to burn away every trace of—

"Chuck."

Her words were a plea, an insistence against the onslaught of his kiss, but he paid her no attention.

…

When he left an hour later, he took one of the place cards with him.

Ripping it carefully, severing the _B.W._ from the _C.B._, the initials that belonged to both him _and_ the groom, he tossed the unwanted half into the clear blue water.

The _B.W._, he tucked carefully into his wallet, for what purposes he didn't know exactly.

…

When Serena called him a few hours later, he was on his third scotch.

It was doing nothing to calm his nerves.

"What did you say to her? Carter's beside himself, and the guests are beginning to talk," Serena hissed into the phone, and Chuck could hear the sounds of guests milling about, "Where did you take her, Chuck?"

"Blair's not with me," Chuck said slowly, his words enunciated carefully, hiding any of the glee that threatened to consume him. It wasn't a lie.

"Then where is she?" Serena nearly yelled, clearly hysterical.

"Not a clue," Chuck replied, already halfway out his suite. "Best of luck in finding the bride, S."

He hung up before Serena started ranting, was in the lobby within seconds.

Serena may not have known where her best friend would be, but Chuck had always known Blair better than anyone else.

Forty-three tense minutes later, he stood at the small, private airstrip on St. Barts.

"Hi," she said, as if she was expecting him. She was in front of him, hair still in its updo, wearing a simple beige trench over her champagne slip.

The small, tentative smile she gives him is like coming home.

* * *

_fin_


	14. Congratulations

**Warning: Spoilers ahead!**

* * *

**AN: I'm terrible with posting these. They sit unpublished for too long. In any case, I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"Congratulations."

Blair looked up to see Dan, standing in the doorway, glass of champagne held in one hand, unreadable expression on his features.

"Thanks, Humphrey," Blair replied stiffly. She's still not quite sure where they stand, not after—

"I guess you got everything you've ever wanted," Dan noted. "You'll really be royalty now, I suppose."

Blair frowned, "Louis explained it, but I don't know exactly what my title will be."

"Still," Dan laughed. "You, Blair Waldorf, are going to be royalty."

"You're surprised?" Blair asked faux-scathingly, and she smiles slightly to herself, noting that they had fallen back into a familiar pattern. One she quite liked, though she would never outwardly admit it.

"No," Dan said with a wry laugh. "No, I suppose I'm not."

Blair laughed as well, and she caught her reflection in the mirror—bright eyes, flushed cheeks.

But the diamond on her left hand, the canary yellow diamond that was supposedly a family heirloom, caught the light, and her attention was drawn to it once more.

She looked away.

An awkward silence filled the room, and Dan took the moment to blurt out his thoughts, in true Dan Humphrey style.

"What happened between us—"

"Was a mistake," Blair finished quickly. Dan heaved a relieved sigh, and Blair smiles slightly. "I thought we agreed on that."

"I know," Dan said. "But I didn't want to be blamed for it when a scandal erupts because the Princess of Monaco or wherever was once involved with someone from Brooklyn."

Blair rolled her eyes.

"I told you we'd be better as friends," she said simply.

"We're…friends?" Dan asked skeptically. Blair shrugged.

"I suppose so. But tell anyone, Humphrey, and I'll set the Royal Guard on you."

"So we're not-friends, then."

Another round of laughter echoes around the room, followed by another silence, in which Dan blurts out his second thought. When Blair and Louis had announced their sudden engagement, his eyes had snapped to one person immediately after.

"He won't be happy," Dan said solemnly, and Blair looks at him innocently.

"Who?"

"You know who," Dan said, and Blair wondered if it was her imagination, or if there was a note of blame in his voice. "Chuck was going to propose to you eventually."

Blair sighed, knowing that she would have to deal with this eventually.

"I know. And I would have said yes. Eventually."

Because she knew that a proposal between the two of them would come about as easily as their first 'I love you' exchange.

"But?"

"But what, Humphrey?" Blair snapped, irritated. She had already deigned to call herself a _friend_ of Dan's, but she was seriously reconsidering her words at this moment.

"I thought you were going to wait for him," Dan retorted.

"I _wasn't_ waiting around for Chuck," Blair replied, seething.

"But you two agreed, in the future—"

"I'm regretting telling you any of this now, Humphrey," Blair huffed.

"But—"

"But it's easier this way," Blair finished wearily, knowing that with Dan, he would never give up.

"Easier?" Dan echoed. "How?"

"It just…is," Blair mumbled. "Louis is a Prince. And he won't break my heart."

"And Chuck will," Dan finished.

Blair nodded.

"He's not going to go down without a fight," Dan told her.

Blair sighed quietly.

"I know," she whispered.

And the light caught the diamond again, and in that second, Blair knew that it wasn't right.

It wasn't the right diamond.

* * *

_fin_


	15. Burn

**AN: Something I wrote post 3x17 and finally got around to finishing recently. (It was not based on recent spoilers.) Thanks go out to bethaboo, as always.**

* * *

_A freak accident,_ they say.

_Foul play, _they whisper.

But they never find any real evidence. The case is closed. The owner is firmly against pressing charges anyways.

_Bass' Empire Falls_, the headlines proclaim.

They are wrong.

The hotel is still standing.

Only the uppermost floors were ravaged by the fire. The sprinkler system, the damn state-of-the-art sprinkler system, doused the blaze.

New York City's firemen did the rest.

He can still remember the flashing red lights and the siren wailing in his ears.

The stench of gasoline burning his nose.

…

_He sits on the carpet, cigarette dangling from his fingertips, the plumes of smoke not enough to disguise the acrid smell of gasoline._

_The entire room is doused in it. The silk pillows. The leather couch. The pool table._

_And he finishes his tumbler of scotch, neat. Gulps the liquid down like a parched man lost in the desert, taking advantage of a mirage, a pond he will never reach. _

_Scotch sears down his throat, but it doesn't help him forget._

_Images, too vivid to be real, too wrong to be real, pound through his mind._

_And all he can see is a gold dress pooling at her feet; her head thrown back in ecstasy; her red fingernails scraping down another man's back._

_Fuck it, he thinks._

_He drops the cigarette onto the carpet, and the result is instantaneous._

…

In hindsight, he probably should have gotten out of the hotel before starting the fire.

And there's probably a reason why they tell you _not_ to take the elevator during a fire.

Still, being in the hospital for smoke inhalation and possible head trauma means one thing.

He hates pity, in case you didn't know. Can't stand it. Especially when it's coming from Serena. But when pity means this, he doesn't mind so much.

It means she visits him.

…

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I heard about the fire."

"It was in all the papers."

"Serena told me."

"She shouldn't have."

"I would've found out anyways."

"I don't want your pity."

"You nearly _died_."

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

(He avoids the conversation the same way he avoids Brooklyn. And the sound of her heels clicking down the hospital's hallway resonates in his ears.)

…

A sheaf of papers drops unceremoniously in front of her, and she looks up in surprise.

"What the hell, Blair?"

"Not everyone is privy to the delusions of Chuck Bass," she sneers. "You're going to have to elaborate."

"That," Chuck fumes, pointing at the stacks of investigative reports, all coming up with the same result. _Inconclusive._

Blair's eyes blaze.

"Forgive me, I was _trying_ to help. Forgive me, I was only trying to figure out what idiotic person started the fire because—"

"Because it was me," Chuck confesses, his bravado disappearing as he sinks onto the couch.

Blair's expression is one of shock.

"But—you—the Empire—"

She stutters and stumbles over words she hasn't since she was six.

And realization dawns.

"It was because of Jack."

"No."

She's always been able to read him best.

"Liar."

"It was because of _you_ and Jack."

The breath whooshes out of her and for a moment, the world stops spinning, her vision tunnels out, and all she can focus on is the man in front of her, and all she can remember is the gold dress still stuffed under her bed.

"I couldn't bear to be in the same place….after he…you both…I just—"

It seems Chuck Bass is at a loss for words too.

"We weren't—I didn't…"

He refuses to let himself hope; but that in itself is impossible.

"You didn't—"

She shakes her head.

"Then how?" he breathes.

"He kissed me," Blair says stiffly. Chuck's hands clench. "But that was all. He told me about what you did."

Chuck's head dips in shame. Blair averts her eyes, and his hoarse voice finishes the story.

"He told you that I'd gotten the Empire—but I lost you," Chuck finishes.

Blair nods.

And for what seems like an eternity, they stare at opposite ends of the room, refusing to meet each others' eyes.

"You burnt down the Empire—" she begins.

"Only the top three floors," he interrupts.

Blair rolls her eyes. "Because of Jack…and I?"

Chuck nods, "It didn't work."

Blair frowns. "What didn't work? The fire—"

"Was meant to burn away any reminders of…that night. It didn't work."

"Why?"

"Because it'll always be in the back of my mind," Chuck squeezes his eyes shut, as if to ward off the images now crowding his mind—images he now knows are false, images that depict events that did not happen. "I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself for—"

"Was it worth it?" Blair whispers, interrupting his speech. She knows the right thing to say is that she has forgiven him. But in truth, she hasn't. She will forgive him, she knows this. But at this moment, the betrayal is still too fresh in her mind.

"No."

"Why?" Blair prompts. She needs this, she thinks.

"Because I'd lost you," Chuck says simply. "And the Empire wasn't a replacement."

"But you chose _it_ over _me_," Blair argues, and the tears spring to her eyes, unbidden.

"I didn't—"

"You're Chuck Bass," Blair says with a shake of her head. "I should have known better."

"I'm sorry," he means it, but he knows it isn't enough. Not nearly enough.

She knows it too.

Her laugh is hollow.

"You know that doesn't fix anything."

"I know," he agrees, "but I do mean it."

The look in his eyes tells her everything she needs to know.

* * *

_fin_


	16. the Doorman

**AN: Short and sweet. Thanks to bethaboo, my fabulous beta!**

* * *

He's been the doorman of the same building for twenty-six years now, and he remembers the Waldorf girl from when she first moved in at a mere five years old—a petite girl with a penchant for red coats and yellow sundresses. He mostly remembers her perfect manners and oddly articulate way of speaking.

However, he can't recall a time when she has been this happy.

Thanks to her impeccable breeding, she is always ready with polite _thank-yous_ and society smiles. But this, _this_ is different.

Because now there is a glow around her he can't quite place—and her smile, it's _real_. It's as real as the peonies he sees her clutching in her small hands.

It's as if someone's taken Blair Waldorf, the black-and-white version who never truly smiled, and painted her with a rainbow of colors.

She is happy—and the effect of it is contagious.

But he is solely a doorman, and he returns her cheery smile with a polite one of his own, as is customary. She walks, or rather, runs, past him and a gloved driver opens the door to an idling limo. He catches a glimpse inside before it is shut again.

_Of course_ it is a boy, he thinks wryly.

But the limo speeds off and the Johnsons have returned from their trip to St. Marteens, and it is his job to help unload the luggage. And his thoughts turn to his aching back, but the dark haired boy who looked at the girl with complete adoration remains in the back of his mind.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
